


What am I to you?

by MadClairvoyant



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadClairvoyant/pseuds/MadClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short piece between Gen and Irene.</p>
<p>A.K.A Words do more damage than you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What am I to you?

It started out as another argument. In themselves, they were nothing too bad. Really. Under the cover of night, it was their favourite pastime. The carefully phrased jibes were no longer needed, and the restraint employed to formulate those were gone. Here, they were as free to yell as loud as they wanted, and certainly, they spared no expense. However, somewhere along, their famed sharp tongues and gone a little off course. Nothing serious at first, but here’s a word of caution; acidic words on fraying tempers, especially vicious ones, are never a good mix. 

“Why do you even care!?!” Her low, cold voice was high-pitched and furious.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t be bothered.” The uncharacteristic calmness stung more than it should have.

With an almost audible ‘whoosh’, the fight had gone out of them. He sincerely regretted his words, especially the damage. Irene had slumped down, defeated, and he could see the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes. It was a sore point between them, and they always danced around that, never daring to breach the carefully built defences around each other. It was too dangerous, and they were not going to risk that. This was forbidden territory, and damn it, he didn’t know what the hell he could do. 

Awkwardly, he stumbled towards her, and then put his arms around her, patiently waiting for the explosion that was coming. Years of babysitting told him that an angry girl was easier to deal with than a hysterical one, and he only hoped he succeeded, even if Irene would be spitting mad when she recovered, and he was screwed anyway.

Surprisingly, she didn’t blow up in his face. Instead, she asked weakly. “What am I to you?” Unspoken was the accumulated insecurities and frustrations that built up in his mind too.

What could he say? She was his queen, his wife, and he loved her. But what really was she? He could say she was his greatest treasure, and she was, but he had a feeling that it would not go over well with her, and it didn’t sound right to him. Finally, he settled on the simplest, and the most truthful answer. “You are Irene.”

“Thank you.” A soft whisper. And so it was that.


End file.
